


At Break of Dawn

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Buckaroo Fringe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Western, Attempted Murder, Drugs, First Meeting, Gen, John is bored of life, Murder, Sherlock looks too young for his own good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3440123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arizona, 1879 </p><p>A string of murders in opium dens lead to a doctor and a detective meeting each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watches and Cards

Prescott is just like any other western town really, nothing exciting or different. A rail head, a bank, opium dens, saloons, dance halls, gambling houses, whores. He’s seen it all hundreds of times, and it doesn’t excite him anymore.

He’s twenty-seven, and can’t understand how he’s become so world weary. Back in university, everything was exciting – medicine, women, the world outside. And now, now he finds that most of the time he couldn’t care less. He’s going through the motions, gambling, drinking, easing the pain in his shoulder, and none of it matters.

John looks up from his cards. The card shark, Jonathan Hope, has laid down his hands. “Three queens,” Hope says, sitting back in his chair, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “What do you have, Watson?”

Three queens. Who does he think he’s playing? Some kid fresh from the round-up who’s never played competently in his life? John smirks. “One woman maybe you can trust. But three? Not on your life.” His shoulder is testament enough to that, aching as he lays down his hand of cards. “Royal flush.” There’s a collective intake of breath from around the table.

“I can’t top that,” another player, Hall, declares, tossing down his cards in a jumble. The other unnamed gambler, a young man with dark curls, shakes his head, laying down his cards neater. “Nor me,” he says.

It’s a rich pot, comprised of two hundred dollars and a decent watch, courtesy of the curly man. John draws it closer to him, shuffling the money together before pocketing it along with the watch. “Much obliged, gentlemen.” He pushes back from the table and leaves, heading back to the bar to refresh himself. Maybe he’ll find a whore and splash some of his winnings. It’s a guilty thought – he should be saving this money to go into practice, but how is he supposed to perform surgery with the mess that his shoulder is in? His hand has developed a tremor which unnerves him to notice.

He sips at his beer and sighs, surveying the room, fingering the watch in his pocket. It’s a nice model, no doubt about that, if a little battered and worn. The chain twines around his fingers, sinuous and delicate. The curly-haired young man who it belonged to before the poker game pushes back from the table and saunters towards the bar. He’s tall, gangly and sharp-featured with the washed-out look of an opium user, eyes shadowed by the broad-brimmed hat covering his hair.

He leans up beside John at the bar and orders a whisky, knocking it back fast.

“If you give me a chance, I’ll buy that watch back off you,” he says, nodding at the pocket where the watch is nestled. His voice is rich, and his careful enunciation gives away his education. He’s eastern, and it is stamped all over that voice, try as he may to fit in. John doesn’t re-call coming to such a conclusion over the poker game, then again he was a little pre-occupied. Probably he just didn’t notice.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I quite like it and I won it in a fair game.”

The man sighs, for he is a man no matter how much he looks like a wayward boy. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for it.”

A hundred dollars? It would be extortion to accept that for it. “It’s hardly worth fifty.”

“I’d redeem it any day for a thousand.” His voice is hard, an edge to it as sharp as a knife.

John frowns. “If it’s that special, then why did you throw it into the pot?” A body has the right to know what he’s giving up for a hundred dollars, after all.

The man furrows his brow. “You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re a surgeon with a gambling habit, which is how you’ve gotten shot in the shoulder. I’d put the wound at about two months old, and more than likely the man who inflicted it was aiming for your chest. It’s mostly healed, but you’re still tender with it and are convinced that you would have done a better job at treating it if the roles had been reversed. You’re probably correct. You’re not a drinking man, or at least not to excess, and yet your own watch was once owned by a drunkard. You’re apathetic, bored. The cards are losing their appeal though you’ve proven tonight that you still have the ability to win big. Am I wrong?”

The words roll smoothly off his tongue, and John is taken aback. “Amazing.”

“So I’m right.”

“Almost. It was a woman who shot me.”

The man swears. “There’s always something.”

The exasperation makes John grin, and he extends his hand. “John Watson. We may as well go all the way seeing as how you know so much about me anyway.”

This draws a smile from the man, and he shakes John’s hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’ll buy you a drink.”


	2. Acquaintance Forged

They collect their drinks and move to a table by the back wall which affords an excellent view of the room.

“You haven’t explained why you threw up the watch,” John says, as casual as he can manage, as he sits back against the wall.

Holmes sighs beside him and stretches his legs under the table. “It was for a case.”

“You fancy yourself a detective, then.”

“ _Consulting_ detective. I’m the only one in the world. I invented the job.” There are notes of both pride and derision in his voice, pride for himself and derision because apparently his profession should be _so obvious_.

John snorts into his beer. “Well excuse me.”

“There’ve been a string of deaths in opium dens here. I was called in to investigate them. That’s why I gave up the watch.” His fingers twitch.

“Hmmm. Yeah. That doesn’t logically follow.”

Holmes gives him a withering glance. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand it.”

Well that’s an insult if ever he’s heard one. “Is that why you’ve been getting high? Going undercover?”

“Naturally.”

“Your methods are certainly singular, Mister Holmes.”

“It was necessary.”

“I’m sure.”

Holmes rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his whiskey, but doesn’t deign to comment.

“So tell me about these deaths,” John prompts him eventually, filing away the gleam in the detective’s eyes for future reference. _Likes talking about possible murder. How nice._

“It’s poison. It has to be. It’s not an opium overdose because the corpses don’t display the correct symptoms of such, not to mention that it would be too high of an overdose rate, even for a place like Prescott. And that’s leaving aside how difficult it is to overdose on smoked opium. It’s not centred on any one opium den either. The deaths are evenly spread between the five establishments here in the town. If it was anything in the opium itself, it would be relatively confined and there would be more frequenters reporting symptoms. But there aren’t any obvious symptoms, so it must be poison. Most likely administered intravenously.” Again the deductions roll forth as if they are the most obvious things in the world.

“Are there puncture wounds on the corpses?”

An uncertain look comes into Holmes’ eyes. “Possibly. There was on the last one, in the crook of his elbow. Any before that, I can’t say. I’ve only been here two days.”

“And in that time you’ve smoked in each of the dens.”

“Of course. The case demands integrity.” He says it as if it’s obvious.

“You do know that that’s terribly bad for your health, don’t you?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“So do you have any theory yet?”

“I’m working towards one.” He nods towards the gambling table where John won his watch and where a new game is now in progress. “Jonathan Hope would be my second possibility. He was seen talking to the last victim shortly before he died. They were in Comerford’s place together.”

The name Comerford means nothing to John, though he presumes it’s an opium den. If he asks, he’s reasonably sure he’ll end up insulted again. “So who would your first choice be?”

“Neville Whitney. He’s over by the door – No don’t look. I suspect he might be onto me. He’s been hanging around the last few days, in and out of dens, though never smoking much in the way of opium. He keeps turning up.”

“Might be just a coincidence.”

Holmes makes a moue of distaste. “The world is rarely so lazy.”

* * *

 

When they part that night, Holmes has become Sherlock in John’s mind, and the aforementioned Sherlock has gotten his watch back. John caves sometime around midnight, and they laugh over it. It’s an easy sort of acquaintance that they have, the sort forged over drinking in saloons. It’s also, unfortunately, the sort that never properly lasts into a second day. John finds himself disappointed over that, because really, Sherlock Holmes is a terribly fascinating man.

 


	3. Cards and Collapses

Sherlock blinks hard when he steps through the saloon door – John can see him from his position at the card table. There’s a subtle sway to his walk which makes him sigh, as he looks back to his cards. It’s a delicious hand, as hands go, and it would be a waste to let the opportunity slip because of an opium user, no matter how good the conversation was last night.

He wins the hand, though it is close, and pulls his winnings across the table. The dealer is handing out the fresh cards when Sherlock comes to stand beside John. Up close, John can see that he is definitely suffering under the influence this time, and feels a check at his heart.

“Are you all right, Sherlock?” he asks, frowning up at the detective. Sherlock blinks slowly, clearly confused, and opens his mouth to speak. Before any words come out, the eyes roll in his head and he crumples to the floor.

John is down beside him in a second, loosening his neckerchief and seeking out a pulse. Along with Sherlock’s breathing, his pulse is slow, confirming John’s suspicion that he’s after getting high.

“Get me some whiskey,” he says to the room at large, checking Sherlock’s pupils (dilated), and propping his head against his chest. Someone passes him a glass of whiskey and he takes the first mouthful for himself, then brings the glass to Sherlock’s lips, trickling a little into his open mouth. Sherlock gags first before he swallows and John lets in a little more, watching as he coughs. “Careful,” he murmurs. “Careful.”

One eye cracks open, revealing a thin rim of grey iris around the blown black pupil. “What –“ He frowns.

“Just take it easy, Sherlock,” John shushes him. “You fainted but you’ll be all right now.” _I hope_ he adds mentally, wishing that he hadn’t gone with his gut instinct of asking for whiskey and instead dunked his head in the water trough outside. Though he probably didn’t drink enough of the whiskey for it to sicken him.

“Hope,” Sherlock whispers, voice hoarse and other eye blinking open slowly. “It’s Hope.”

For one mad moment, John thinks Sherlock’s managed to deduce that he is in no way certain of whether or not he’ll be all right. He might be good, but he’s hardly _that_ good. “Sorry?”

“The murderer is Jonathan Hope.” Sherlock lurches to his feet and almost topples over. In fact, he would topple over only for John managed to get hold of him in time.

“I thought you said it was Whitney?” he asks, voice pitched low so that the crowd which has gathered around them can’t hear what they’re saying.

“I was wrong,” Sherlock hisses. “Lie about where we’re going.”

“Who said anything about me going with you?”

For the first time in this strange encounter, John sees a flash of the arrogance of last night, in the smirk which twists Sherlock’s mouth for only a moment. “Of course you are.”

_Yeah, you’re right._ John smiles for the crowd. “That’s enough poker for me I think,” he declares, gathering his winnings together. “I’ll help this gentleman back to his room.”

They work their way out of the room and into the clear air. Sherlock still isn’t quite steady on his feet and he sways dangerously for a second before John takes his arm.

“You have your gun?” Sherlock murmurs out of the side of his mouth as they walk down the street, looking for all of the world like a doctor and his patient.

“Of course I have it.”

“Good. He’s in Comerford’s and he’s planning something. I could read it in him.”

“So where are we going?”

“Comerford’s, of course. Best place to catch him.”

“Shouldn’t we call the Marshal?”

“No need for that yet, not until we can be certain.”

“I thought you were certain.”

“Make that about eighty-five percent. There’s always something.”


	4. Pipes and Bullets

At Comerford’s, they acquire a pipe of opium each and sit on stools in front of a small fire. Smoke lies heavy in the air, the acrid smell burning John’s nose. It’s so thick that it’s difficult to identify the other patrons, some of whom lie groaning on the floor or propped against walls while others stare blindly into fires much like they are pretending to do. It’s cramped, and John can’t say that he likes it much, if at all.

They manage to sight Hope soon enough through the obscuring haze. He is sitting over by the wall, an opium pipe in his hand, murmuring to himself. John can’t make out what he’s saying – having never learned to read lips – and Sherlock doesn’t pay it any heed.

“He’s pretending to be like any of the others,” he whispers, pretending – or is he pretending? John can’t be sure – to take a drag from his own pipe. “We’ll just keep an eye on him.”

“You don’t actually need me then.” Irritation flares in his voice.

Sherlock flushes. “Not as yet, no. I thought you might be interested in it and –“

“Shush. We’ll discuss this later.”

Sherlock nods, and they resume staring into the fire. John’s mind wanders, over the range and the card tables were he’s spent the last year. He’s wasted so much time and money and what does he have out of it? A scarred shoulder after a gunshot because he wasn’t careful enough. There’s nothing to be pleased about, nothing to leave behind should the next bullet prove more successful than the last. Surely there’s something better that he could be doing, using his time constructively. He could be saving lives, instead of blowing his at the card table.

Something pokes him in the ribs, waking him out of his thoughts. Sherlock takes his opium pipe away, the spout of which he’d used to so rudely awake John. “Hope’s gone,” he says quietly. “Picked up and left. There’s no need to wait around here.”

“All right.”

They stand up slowly, John bemused as Sherlock automatically falls into the slump of an opium smoker, though his pipe has hardly been touched. Clearly it’s a ruse, so John imitates him, head down and eyes glazed. He is aware that he probably doesn’t look half as convincing as they shuffle out, but it is enough. Christ, the smoke is nauseating.

He gets out into the air and it’s a battle not to vomit. Sherlock looks a little grey, likely because he’s already gotten doped today. But he takes a few deep breaths and straightens up, brushing back his hair. The cool, clear air is soothing on John’s face.

“Well that was a bust. So what now?” He needn’t have asked the question, because Sherlock has already dropped to the ground, studying the dust on all fours. Then he curses and stands, mouth twisted with annoyance.

“Nothing. I thought there might be something to go on from his tracks, but there’s nothing. Apologies for wasting your time, John.” He turns, coat swirling, and walks away.

_Well, that was a strange,_ a voice muses in John’s mind. “Strange all right,” he murmurs, and sighs. “The night’s still young. Maybe I should go back to the poker table, just for tonight. Hope might be there and I can keep an eye on him.” Even as he says the words, he knows they are false. Hope won’t be there, he’ll be lying low or planning another attack, if Sherlock’s right. And there’s no reason to suspect that he could be wrong.

He walks away from the opium den, hands in his pockets and eyes studying the ground. It’s an impasse, of sorts. He’s won some money in the last few games, perhaps he could move to some frontier town and start a practice. It would be so much easier to stay here and rove the west some more, planning poker games and eyeing women. But maybe, maybe the time has come to settle.

A grunt breaks into his thoughts. The scraping of boots on dust and gagging. John frowns. There’s no one around. He checks again, turning on the spot and surveying the street. Nobody. Only him.

Except, there. It’s a small alleyway, like a deep wound where the two buildings should fit together. His hand wraps around the revolver in his coat pocket and he draws it, flicking the chamber open. There are three rounds already loaded. Should be enough. He should be nervous, should be somehow concerned. Instead, a warm calm seeps through him and he ducks into the alley.

It’s a moment before his eyes adjust to the darkness. All he sees are shadows, vague impressions. One man is wrestling with another, has the second man in a head lock. He recognises the dark curls tumbling loose and his throat dries. _Sherlock_.

The other man has something pointed at Sherlock’s neck. A flash, a glint of light on brass.

Later, John won’t remember raising his gun and firing. But he won’t regret it either.

The echo of the shots reverberate through the alley, deafening John so that all he can hear is buzzing. A spray of blood hits the wall. The man holding Sherlock sways on the spot and Sherlock pulls away just as he crumples to the ground, leg twitching in the dirt.

John is by his side in a second and Sherlock frowns, easing a needle from his neck.

“Thank you, John,” he says, voice muffled, before he coughs. John kneels beside the still-twitching body and a wave of nausea washes over him which he quickly suppresses. Jonathan Hope, with one bullet having ripped through his throat and the other lodged in his chest, mouth open, gasping, blood flooding into his airway through the hole left in his trachea. His eyes flicker feebly from side to side – twice, three times – then stop, seeming to flatten as they stare blankly towards the barely visible stars.

“You were right,” John says, vaguely surprised at how his voice shakes. Everything is vague now. He hasn’t killed a man since that incursion in his brief Ranger days, and he’s thought that that life is behind him. He grimaces at himself, a little disgusted, and stands, turning back to Sherlock who is leaning against the wall of one of the buildings, face pallid and one hand pressed to his neck. “Are you all right?” It’s a relief to hear that he sounds more like himself now.

Sherlock nods. “Yes. He didn’t get to administer anything.”

“Almost, though.”

“Almost.”


	5. Music, Surprises and Propositions

The jail cell is small and cramped. There is a bed, which is little more than a few laths with some blankets on them. It’s better than a pallet on the floor, but not by much. John lies back on it with his hat over his face and sighs. There’re two drunks in the cell next to his who keep singing, ‘I Ride an Old Paint’ and ‘Skibbereen’ with a verse or two from ‘Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie’ interspersed. He’s heard better versions of all of those songs.

Within ten minutes of having killed Hope, John found himself arrested and thrown in here. That’s over an hour ago now, and still no one has spoken to him, though there were – for a while – muffled voices coming from the Marshal’s office. Even those are gone now – he heard the front door shut about twenty minutes ago, by his estimate. He’s already tried the cell door, which of course is locked. This isn’t some worthless dime novel where the door isn’t locked and the roguish hero can simply walk through it and escape. He doesn’t know why he let himself think that it might be.

In all of that time he hasn’t seen or heard anything from Sherlock. Hopefully he was right and Hope didn’t get to administer anything. This time, being wrong will kill him, not that there’s anything they can do about it anyway when they can’t be sure what the poison is.

He sighs and rolls over, facing into the wall. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can tune out the singing drunks and sleep. There’s nothing else for him to do now anyway.

* * *

It doesn’t seem that long later – and John should know, because he didn’t sleep a wink – when there’re footsteps followed by a rattle at the cell door. He lifts his hat from his face and looks over, surprised to see the Marshal unlocking the cell.

“You’re free to go, Doctor Watson,” he says. “Mister Holmes has explained the situation.” The moue of distaste that he makes leads John to question this, but he’s not going to object to going free.

Well, maybe just a token objection.

“But –“

The Marshal raises a hand and stops him before he can begin proper.

“There’s no need, Doctor. It’s all fine.”

To say that he’s taken aback would be an understatement. “Thank you, Marshal.” He fixes his hat and steps out of the cell.

“Mister Holmes is waiting to talk to you in my office.”

“Oh, right.” He follows the Marshal out to the front, where the office is, expecting to see Sherlock waiting for him. Instead, he is greeted by the sight of a man wearing a three-piece suit, sitting behind the Marshal’s desk. His hair – tinged copper and thinning – doesn’t fall into an array of curls, instead is neat and combed back. A cane sits propped against the desk.

The man says nothing as the Marshal hands John back his revolver, before turning and walking back down to the cells, closing the door behind him.

“I believe a thank you is in order, Doctor Watson,” the man says, leaning back in the chair. His watch chain – looped carefully around the front of his waistcoat – glistens under the light.

The best course of action is possibly to play clueless. This is certainly not Sherlock, so the odds are high that he won’t be able to deduce anything about him. Easy to play dumb. “For what? I don’t re-call doing you any favours.”

The man cocks an eyebrow, folding his hands across his stomach. “You’ve done me quite a big favour, actually. Only tonight you’ve saved my brother’s life. Sherlock has told me everything. Not that he needed to. It’s obvious from your hands and your face why you killed Jonathan Hope. In gratitude, I’ve gotten the Marshal to waive both the murder charge and that of carrying a gun within town limits. I suggest that you keep your head down for the rest of the time that you are here.”

On the one hand, John is grateful to this other Mister Holmes for relieving him of the murder and ensuring that he won’t find himself getting hanged for it. On the other, it annoys him that this man is in such a position that he’s able to dictate who should go free and who should be punished.

“I appreciate your assistance,” John responds, hoping that these inner thoughts are not readable on the surface.

“You may leave, Doctor. Just don’t get my brother into any more trouble.” Holmes waves his hand toward the door, a dismissal. John nods, then turns and leaves, the waves of conceit washing off the man making him nauseous.

* * *

It’s late into the next day when Sherlock ferrets out John in one of the saloons. The detective is pale and drawn, eyes blood shot and fingers twitching. Withdrawal is taking its toll on him now, and John sighs, folding out of the poker game which has occupied him for the last few hours.

“So much for giving it up,” Sherlock remarks, sipping at the whisky that John hands him when they move into a back table.

“I will give it up.” John’s voice is more defensive than he’d like, but Sherlock merely smirks. “I just felt that after last night perhaps I deserved another game or two.”

“True enough.” He sighs, setting down his whisky and leaning back against the barroom wall. “I was thinking about going to Colorado.”

John frowns. The statement is so out of the blue - and surely Sherlock realises that – that it knocks any intention John had of mentioning the other Holmes right out of his head. “It’s nice country. Plenty of gold mines.”

“Plenty of cattle rustlers, too.” Sherlock’s lip twitches and he shifts awkwardly in his chair. “John, I’d understand if you said no, I mean, I know you’re thinking up other plans and you did have to deal with Mycroft last night but, would you like to come to Colorado with me?” The words tumble out of him with hardly a stop for breath.

John looks away, observing the room at large. Or at least, looking as if he is. “As a partner.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock nod.

“Yes.”

“To help you solve cases.”

At this, Sherlock diverts his attention from John, joining him in a survey of the room. “Yes.”

John’s still resolutely not looking at Sherlock, though he knows that the other man is squirming and it’s delicious. “To possibly get myself killed.”

“Well, I would understand if –“

“Of course I will.”

Sherlock’s head whips around, eyes wide in surprise. “You –“

John nods, sipping at his beer and smiling inwardly. “Yes. I’ll go to Colorado with you. Not sure if I’m really cut out to be much of a doctor anymore anyway.”


End file.
